Feeling: Excited
Listening to: I Just Can't Get Enough by Depeche Mode

Guys, guys! I just realised something.

And this is such a huge revelation; it's opening doors to so many new (or old) possibilities.

I discovered that if I just write and write without concerning myself with rhyme or reason or rhythm, I can accomplish so much more than if I follow my usual mode of action by overanalysing everything I try to put into words but never actually finish.

To prove my point, I WROTE A POEM, GUYS.

A poem.

I haven't been able to do that since fucking 2009.

I think I'm on to something.

The Benjamin Franklin of Monogamy by Jeffrey McDaniel

Reminiscing in the drizzle of Portland, I notice the ring that's landed on your finger, a massive insect of glitter, a chandelier shining at the end

of a long tunnel. Thirteen years ago, you hid the hurt in your voice under a blanket and said there's two kinds of women — those you write poems about

and those you don't. It's true. I never brought you a bouquet of sonnets, or served you haiku in bed. My idea of courtship was tapping Jane's Addiction

lyrics in Morse code on your window at three A.M., whiskey doing push-ups on my breath. But I worked within the confines of my character, cast

as the bad boy in your life, the Magellan of your dark side. We don't have a past so much as a bunch of electricity and liquor, power

never put to good use. What we had together makes it sound like a virus, as if we caught one another like colds, and desire was merely

a symptom that could be treated with soup and lots of sex. Gliding beside you now, I feel like the Benjamin Franklin of monogamy,

as if I invented it, but I'm still not immune to your waterfall scent, still haven't developed antibodies for your smile. I don't know how long

regret existed before humans stuck a word on it. I don't know how many paper towels it would take to wipe up the Pacific Ocean, or why the light

of a candle being blown out travels faster than the luminescence of one that's just been lit, but I do know that all our huffing and puffing

into each other's ears — as if the brain was a trick birthday candle — didn't make the silence any easier to navigate. I'm sorry all the kisses

I scrawled on your neck were written in disappearing ink. Sometimes I thought of you so hard one of your legs would pop out

of my ear hole, and when I was sleeping, you'd press your face against the porthole of my submarine. I'm sorry this poem has taken thirteen years

to reach you. I wish that just once, instead of skidding off the shoulder blade's precipice and joyriding over flesh, we'd put our hands away like chocolate

to be saved for later, and deciphered the calligraphy of each other's eyelashes, translated a paragraph from the volumes of what couldn't be said.

She wanted so badly to pull him close and kiss him hard on the mouth. She wanted everything to be okay and for it to just stop hurting so goddamn much. Nobody knew how broken up she was inside and how difficult it was to keep all of the little pieces together all the fucking time.

Feeling: Hungry
Listening to: Wash by Bon Iver

2012... Where do I start?

You were full of change and wonder and some pretty fond memories. On the surface, I left the warmth and predictability of home and family for the cold and randomness of a foreign land I knew nothing about, but I don't know if you realise what you meant for me beyond that.

It was in 2012 that my father was finally able to accept that I am my own person; I realised that okay times can become freakin' amazing times with just a little effort and positive thinking; I made good friends in unlikely and sometimes forgotten places; and I rediscovered myself and learnt that that's nothing to be ashamed of.

But despite the good that came out of you, you were also the year I failed to be the best version of myself; I sometimes forgot that I am in control of my own happiness and that it is my responsibility alone; I let go of people I meant to hold on to; and although I was able to acknowledge my flaws, I kept forgetting to do something about them.

So, yes, you have been a rollercoaster of a year (I love rollercoasters). You served your 366 days graciously and you were (for the most part) great fun, but your time is up.

I know there is still a stupid amount of things I need to experience and learn and discover, so thank goodness we managed to survive that whole apocalypse fiasco, huh?

With that, I must wish the newborn 2013 the best of luck. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into, but I promise to get the better of you. I am going to whoop the hell out of your ass and you're going to ask me to stop and I won't and it's going to be great.

Here's to a year of betterment and being awesome!

Listening to: To Build a Home by The Cinematic Orchestra

I don't understand the concept of staying in the same place your whole life.

But then again, I also don't understand how people can identify a singular location out of the ridiculously many across the globe as the one place they want to spend the rest of their existing moments.

So, maybe they involve similar thought processes or something.

Is that what home is? Because I've never really considered any particular place my home. It's more of an abstract sense of contentment and cuddles for me, and that might explain my confusion.

I've heard people say that home can totally be a person. But what about several?

Can you have multiple homes?

Is that okay?

Days remaining: 5

Listening to: Communion Cups And Someone's Coat by Iron & Wine

Holy shit.

I hereby promise to never put myself in that situation ever, ever again.

I fucked myself over real good there.

God damn.

I'm going to go have a long, hot shower to think about what I've done.

Days remaining (a): 0
Days remaining (b): 6

(a) Submit Introduction to Research Methodology Assignment #2
(b) Introduction to Research Methodology exam

41 sleepless hours, lots of SPSS and frustration later, I am going to hit the fucking hay!

Uggghhhhh.

(That is the sound of comfort and utter relief.)

Also, should I be worried that a couple of the lymph nodes in my neck are swollen?

Days remaining (a): 0
Days remaining (b): 6

(a) Submit Introduction to Research Methodology Assignment #2
(b) Introduction to Research Methodology exam

Feeling: Broken
Listening to: Comes And Goes (In Waves) by Greg Laswell

I suddenly feel really far away and alone.

Might have something to do with the fact that I have only had an hour and a half of sleep since I woke up two days ago. I'm running on caffeine, panic and dreams, and quite frankly, I don't know how I'm not lying unconscious in the cold somewhere.

But maybe not. Could be anything.

Days remaining (a): 0
Days remaining (b): 6

(a) Submit Introduction to Research Methodology Assignment #2
(b) Introduction to Research Methodology exam

In a sudden fit of genius, I'm changing my URL...

To the best URL in the world!

http://mooseyinthesky.blogspot.com
http://mooseyinthesky.blogspot.com

http://mooseyinthesky.blogspot.com

Here lies http://xxbrokensmile.blogspot.com
Died of curiosity and a burnt tongue

RIP

13th May, 2005 - 6th December, 2012
P.S. Irony is in the last two posts directly relating to each other.

Days remaining (a): 7
Days remaining (b): 13

(a) Submit Introduction to Research Methodology Assignment #2
(b) Introduction to Research Methodology exam

Feeling: Exasperated
Listening to: Knee 5 From Einstein On The Beach by Philip Glass

I don't know why you are here or what you want, but please, please, please fuck off, fuck off, fuck off.

Go away.

Stop talking to me.

Days remaining (a): 7
Days remaining (b): 13

(a) Submit Introduction to Research Methodology Assignment #2
(b) Introduction to Research Methodology exam

Feeling: Hungry

Can such a monumental part of my life really be described in three short pages of carefully selected words?

Is this peace?

What is this?

It feels weird.

Days remaining (a): 23
Days remaining (b): 29

(a) Submit Introduction to Research Methodology Assignment #2
(b) Introduction to Research Methodology exam

Feeling: Sleepy

Last night, I dreamt I was vomiting. There was still the icky taste of puke in my mouth, so I bent over the toilet bowl and spat the last bits out. Then, I woke up. Because I was spitting all over myself. Hahahahahaha.

Gross.

In better, more dinner-table-friendly news, overachievers make me want to overachieve, too. But I think I need to achieve before I can do that (Baby steps, baby). Here I go!

Notes to self: Buy new AAA batteries. "Sleep faster." Quit being a little bitch.

Days remaining (a): 0
Days remaining (b): 35
Days remaining (c): 41

(a) Submit 10-page Introduction to Research Methodology Assignment #1
(b) Submit Introduction to Research Methodology Assignment #2
(c) Introduction to Research Methodology exam

Listening to: Information Travels Faster by Death Cab For Cutie

It seems Death Cab For Cutie is my current "DO YOUR WORK!" music.

Nice and mellow with only a few instances of intense emotional outburst and the occasional difficult-to-decipher noise.

I'm like... really close to being almost completely up-to-date with my reading for class.

Days remaining (a): 6
Days remaining (b): 41
Days remaining (c): 47

(a) Submit 10-page Introduction to Research Methodology Assignment #1
(b) Submit Introduction to Research Methodology Assignment #2
(c) Introduction to Research Methodology exam

Feeling: Motivated
Listening to: The Weakest by Emery

It's that time of year again...

Yes, that wonderfully rare occasion you get a moose-tacular update about all the amazing adventures I've been having in a fun, family-friendly, bullet-point format!

Things I've done - in reverse chronological order just to confuse you:

1. Finally bought a red bike yesterday and consequently rode to class this morning (which obviously means I got lost and I was late and it rained and I had no idea how the road works)
2. Was two inches close to being pooped on by a bird (which is just icky)
3. Helped (kind of) five Dutch boys transport a foosball table from a random place in Leiden to a random place in Delft (which obviously means we were drinking booze the whole time and we played it in various places you do not normally find a foosball table, such as while eating french fries and onions on the street by a food cart and on a moving train and pretty much during the whole transportation part of this process)
4. Cooked chicken rice and nasi lemak for Michelle and the Delft boys (on numerous occasions now because they like to eat) (which obviously means it didn't turn out as Bruneian as it could have been but it was yummy nonetheless)
5. Bought a can-opener

I just suddenly got bored. I don't know what happened.

In any case, I am slightly troubled by the fact that I cannot find music suitable enough to facilitate important-essay-writing!

Days remaining (a): 7
Days remaining (b): 42
Days remaining (c): 48

(a) Submit 10-page Introduction to Research Methodology Assignment #1
(b) Submit Introduction to Research Methodology Assignment #2
(c) Introduction to Research Methodology exam

Feeling:
Listening to: Killing In The Name by Rage Against The Machine

On Thursday, I went on a two-hour train ride to visit Tilburg for no other reason than to see Trivium, As I Lay Dying and Caliban live (I somehow accidentally missed Upon A Burning Body. I don't understand either...). I went to Tilburg, saw some awesome bands play - and left. With a little bit of getting lost and creepily following some guys wearing Trivium t-shirts around like they were breadcrumbs (Get it? 'Cause I was lost... The guys were the breadcrumbs... Like in Hansel and Gretel...) in between.

I am proud to say I ripped the hell out of my tights and headbanged harder than I have ever headbanged (I am also proud to say my neck is still sore). It is fucking amazing to not care about the people around you and just lose control of your body as you let it do whatever the hell it does when it enjoys music.

Actually, the whole idea behind concerts is kind of amazing: A great mass of people from various and random walks of life coming together for just one night because they share one common interest. You make your way there from all over the place, press up against each other covered in sweat and God-knows-what for a few good hours, cheer and fist-pump as one united, breathing organism, and then just as suddenly as you came together, disperse in a reluctant attempt to return to the life you left behind for a singular night.

And that's why I don't mind going alone - 'cause when you let yourself become a part of that giant mob of people, alone is something you never really are. But even if that is the case, it doesn't matter; in those few fleeting moments, you just don't care.

And that's a nice feeling. :]

Feeling: Lazy

The most thought-provoking thing I have read today (from here):

I think the concept of virginity was created by men who thought their penises were so important it changes who a woman is.

It's interesting because when I was growing up, I was constantly trying to rationalise the idea that everything that makes a person good and wholesome and precious can somehow be taken away from them in a few easy steps.

I don't know if men "value" virginity in the same way women do, so I don't know if it has anything to do with sexism. But it does follow a strange logic I cannot understand. Yet, perhaps in a wonderful example of how stagnant this society and its values are, it is still a widely and devoutly believed-in theory where I come from.

And then, there is The Color Purple by Alice Walker that brings forth the idea that the mere physical act isn't what changes a girl into a woman; it's the moment you have your first orgasm that matters most. The difference is that nothing sacred in you dies; something brand new and exciting awakens.

I think I like that version better.

"Life is a marathon, not a sprint. But it is a sort of marathon that you really have to sprint. And there are hurdles and weights to lift. And swimming. And shooting. Life is basically the Olympics. But at the end you don’t get a medal, you die." - David O'Doherty

Feeling: Dazed
Listening to: Okay I Believe You, But My Tommy Gun Don't by Brand New

I have this strange and difficult-to-shake habit of willing real life to be a piece of fiction, usually a romantic movie or a sad book.

It seems I'm constantly on the look out for the best characters to fall pray to an inhumane plot with a heart-breaking ending.

(What good is a story if it isn't a good one?)

But I don't know, man. Real life is pretty messed up, and thinking of it with a bit more structure - a bit more method in the fucking madness - makes me feel better, especially when I'm horrible.

(It's for the sake of a good story, you see.)

We're concentrating on falling apart. We were contenders. We're throwing the fight. But I just wanna believe, I just wanna believe, I just wanna believe in us.

Listening to: Paris by Pegasus Bridge

So, this is what we have been reduced to: Blurry images and incomplete sentences two frustrating times a day.

Blargh.

It's a funny thing to realise that the person whose opinion you valued more than anyone else's - with their infallible logic and beautiful words - is just as clueless as you are.

Or maybe it's a maturity thing. Maybe through discovering that nobody knows everything, you lose some of your youthful naïvety.

Maybe it means you're "growing up".




It's a little bit sad when that happens.